


Habits of My Heart

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (not of the main pairing), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anal Fingering, Bachelorette Party, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Disabled Character, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton is a Disaster, Clint Barton's low self esteem, Dancer Natasha Romanov, Deaf Clint Barton, Drinking, Face-Fucking, Falling In Love, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fuckbuddies, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Grindr, Hook-Up, Idiots in Love, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Prompt Fill, Russian Nicknames, Secret Crush, Sharon isn't Clint's biggest fan, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, Wedding Planning, Weddings, penis swag, talking about feelings like goddamn adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: “Please stop asking gay couples how they met,” Clint said, tired and annoyed.  “Yes, Sharon, I met him on Grindr. I sucked his dick. Then I ghosted him for two months and then he moved in with me.  God.”Sharon gave him a wide-eyed look of disbelief, mouth open as she clearly scrambled for something to say, and then Wanda started laughing.  Pepper was quick to follow, her laugh throaty and genuinely amused, and Clint was grateful for both of them.“My goodness,” Wanda said, eyes sparkling with mirth.  “That’s a story to tell the grandchildren. Another round, I think, so that we can toast to Clint’s good fortune.”Or, the one where Clint and Bucky are Grindr not-boyfriends, Natasha and Steve keep trying to set them up, and there are so many shenanigans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heuradys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heuradys/gifts).



> This fic was bid on and requested for Fandom Trumps Hate by Heuradys, who was so much more generous than I deserved. It was a genuine joy to write this, even though it took me a little bit to get started and into the groove, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it!
> 
> And I hope the rest of you do too - it was a labor of love.
> 
> ETA: Drgrlfriend made me an ANOTHER AMAZING header look at this!!! look at the little boutonniere! Look at the TEXT MESSAGES!!! I am DYING!  
> 

“Alright Barton, your allotted five minutes are up, let’s go.”

Cold toes shoved into Clint’s calf, and he flinched, jerking his leg back. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some afterglow around here?”

Barnes snorted, almost sounding amused. “Get a real boyfriend instead of a hook-up, probably,” he said, nudging at Clint’s leg again. “C’mon I want a shower, get the fuck up.”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks to cuddle me for another 5 minutes,” Clint muttered into the lumpy pillow he’d commandeered. 

“I said a hook-up, not a hooker, asshole, c’mon get _up._ ” 

Clint turned his head to look at Barnes, too post-orgasmic to get worked up about it. Bucky was laying across the bed, as naked as Clint, with his own come still splattered across his chest. He was a goddamn beautiful man, all chiseled abs and amazing pecs, and a scowl that could drop a guy at twenty paces. 

Bucky turned the formidable scowl on Clint, but 3 months into their casual hook-up Grindr bullshit, Clint was pretty much immune. “Okay if you won’t cuddle me, how about you give me five more minutes to recover, and I’ll ride you instead.” 

Bucky - Barnes, fuck he always insisted Clint call him Barnes - gave Clint a heated glare, but Clint just wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, before trailing his hand across bare skin to stroke Barnes’ cock.

It gave an interested twitch.

Barnes shoved Clint out of bed.

“You’re kind of an asshole,” Clint informed him, from where he was lying, pained, on the floor.

“Yeah,” Barnes said, climbing out of bed, and dodging the leg Clint kicked out at him with ease. Not that Clint’d been trying very hard - it was probably a dick move to trip a guy who only had one arm, after all. “And?”

Clint rolled his eyes, and then rolled to his feet, stretching languorously. He tugged the condom off and dropped it in the trash can Barnes kept conveniently near the bed before beginning the irritating process of finding his clothes strewn about the room. Every time they hooked up it was like a rabid thing, with clothing torn and hurled everywhere, landing in odd places. Clint had lost at least three pairs of underwear and half a dozen socks to the process, but Barnes refused to fuck anywhere but his own place, and the sex was fantastic enough that Clint couldn’t even be mad about having to buy new boxers. 

“Same time next week?” Clint asked, dragging his jeans up sans his underwear _again_ , and Clint really needed to just stop wearing underwear over here.

“Can’t,” Barnes grumbled, turning on the shower. “Gotta thing. Monday?”

“Monday’s good,” Clint told him, pocketing his phone. “See you Monday,” he called, as he let himself out of the bedroom and headed for the front door of the apartment.

He got a grunt for his trouble, barely audible over the sound of the shower, and he locked the door on his way out.

**

Grindr hookups were just what Clint did. He was a disaster - every relationship he’d ever been in had ended in disaster, most especially his 72 hour marriage to Bobbi Morse - and eventually he’d decided he was too much of a fuck-up for real love. But he liked to fuck, dammit, and he was _good_ at it, attentive and enthusiastic and flexible like only a former circus performer could be, so Grindr it was. 

It wasn’t like he ever wanted for partners, because Grindr was nothing if not dudes looking to bang and never call again, and Tinder was nearly as good, especially if he was in the mood for something other than dick; then Bucky fucking Barnes had waltzed into his life and ruined him for anyone else. 

Barnes was clearly former Army - Ranger if Clint had to guess. He was hot like burning but riddled with what Clint assumed was PTSD, especially considering he’d lost an arm in the service. When they’d matched on Grindr, Clint figured the arm was the only reason Barnes had given him even a passing glance, but he'd been more than happy to hook up with someone so obviously out of his league. There was no other explanation for someone who was an eleven on a scale of ten to have swiped right. Realistically, Clint knew he was maybe a seven on his best day. Besides, Barnes had lost the arm being a genuine fuckin’ hero, probably, so it was just one more reason why Clint shouldn’t even be on his radar. Still, Clint was not in the habit of looking gift horses in the mouth, and he wasn’t gonna start now. Clint was bendy and Bucky was built like a brick shit house, and they fucked on an Olympic level, like if fucking were an Olympic sport they’d be taking the gold home every time.

Clint stopped checking Grindr after their third hook-up, except to see if the messages were from Barnes. 

On their sixth hook-up, he’d coaxed Barnes’ phone number out of him, so he never had to open the app at all.

Now Clint picked the time and Barnes picked the place - always, always at his apartment, not that Clint minded that because his own place was a goddamn hazmat zone - and they had mind-bendingly hot sex and then Barnes kicked him out, sometimes literally.

Other than giving amazing head and being more flexible than his last yoga instructor, Clint figured he was offering Barnes at least one other thing - he didn’t give a shit about his disability. Clint knew first hand how fucked up people could be about anything that wasn’t strictly what they’d consider ‘normal’, and he didn’t even have what someone would consider a ‘visible’ disability, like Barnes had. So Clint didn’t make a big deal about Barnes’ residual limb - he’d lost his left arm just above the elbow and didn’t like for it to be touched below the shoulder at all - which Barnes seemed to appreciate, and Barnes didn’t get flustered about Clint’s deafness or the fact he couldn’t stand to have his ears messed with. It worked for them, and Clint was studiously not considering the fact that he hadn’t hooked up with anyone else in weeks nor did he have any desire to do so, or the fact that they’d been doing it long and frequently enough that they’d developed the kind of familiarity in bed that Clint hadn’t had since his last long-term relationship.

It was great for Clint, actually, because he had no illusions about where it was or wasn’t going, no moments of self-doubt that he was forgetting an anniversary, flubbing a meeting with the parents, or late for a date. He showed up, they fucked, Barnes seemed satisfied with his performance, and Clint left. 

For three months it had been working perfectly, so of course Natasha had to go and ruin it all. 

“You should bring your significant other to the wedding,” she told him, over a salad that looked too healthy to taste good and a milkshake that totally defeated the purpose.

Clint choked on his coffee. “My _what?_ ”

“Your boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Whatever.” She pointed her fork at him. “Bring them. Otherwise I have to let Sam’s cousin bring a date, and I don’t even know Sam’s cousin, much less his date.”

“I don’t- there’s not- what the _fuck,_ Nat?”

She rolled her eyes. “You look happier than you have in years, you’re clearly getting laid on the regular, and I haven’t had to listen to you bitch about your romantic prospects in months. There’s obviously someone.”

“There’s really not.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, but let it go. 

“I’m putting you down for a plus one,” she informed him. 

Or maybe she wasn’t letting it go.

“Don’t forget the bachelorette party on Friday,” she reminded him, as she threw a couple of twenties on the table to cover their lunch. “We’re meeting at The Red Room for dinner and drinks, then going out afterwards.”

“Oh my god, why?” he whined, dropping his head in his hands.

Natasha scrubbed her nails over his scalp, scratching gently. “Because you’re my best man,” she reminded him. “And if you don’t show, I’ll murder you in your sleep.”

Fuck his life.

Clint groaned again, and Natasha sauntered away.

**

No, seriously, fuck his _life._

“Why am I here again?” he asked Natasha, glancing around the room in utter disgust. He was the only guy in the group, a group which consisted of a dozen drunk women, half of whom seemed to hate him, and all of whom had taken great delight in draping him with penis necklaces and forcing a penis straw on him. “And why is everything penis themed?”

Nat shrugged, sipping a cosmo from a martini glass with nary a penis item in sight. She had a very tasteful sash that said _Bride to Be_ , which was probably a solid two inches longer than her dress, and she looked entirely comfortable watching all the women she knew get trashed around her.

Clint was not cut out for this shit. 

“You like penises,” she reminded him.

“Sure,” he agreed. “When they’re attached to attractive people. Absolutely. In florid neon colors hanging around my neck, not so much.”

The only person who had looked more exasperated with the entire situation than Clint was Maria. She was wearing a hot red number and Clint’s leather jacket, had absolutely refused anything that even remotely looked like a penis around her, and she was chatting up a gorgeous brunette with long, curly hair and killer biceps at the bar. 

Clint wished _he_ was chatting up a gorgeous woman at the bar.

Actually, he wished he’d kept his standing hook-up date with Barnes, because even being verbally abused by him would at least have been preceded by orgasms and wouldn’t have been nearly as painful as this. 

Except Barnes had had a _thing_. Clint sighed. 

“Shots!” Clint whipped around to find Sharon and Carol approaching with their hands full of shot glasses, handing them out to everyone in the group. Maria took hers without looking away from the woman she was talking to, and Clint reluctantly accepted one for himself. 

“What is it?” he asked, looking woefully at what could be anything. 

“So it’s a game-“ Sharon started, but Maria finally tore herself away from her soon-to-be-conquest to answer.

“It’s a vajazzle. Every bar we go to, we get the bartender to make one.”

“What the-“ Clint gave up. He just… abandoned all hope of dignity and tossed the shot back without comment.

It was vaguely fruity with a hint of coconut, and he shrugged. It wasn’t bad, in all honesty. 

Natasha gave him a raised-eyebrow look, but she took her own shot without complaint, passing the glass back over to Sharon. 

Two more bars and three more shots - all called vajazzles, but no two made alike - later, Clint was so done he could scream. He’d managed to lose the penis necklaces and the straw, but he hadn’t managed to get his jacket back. Maria had disappeared with it and the woman from the first bar - whom she’d briefly introduced as Valkyrie, winked at Clint, and then never returned. Sharon was doing everything she could to purposely irritate the fuck out of him, and doing it effectively. 

Clint, desperate and a little drunk, pulled his phone out of his pocket.

_Please save me from this hell_ he texted Barnes, and attached a picture of Sharon and Wanda with the inflatable penis they’d got from god-only-knew-where. Pepper had planted herself next to Natasha on a low couch and they were talking quietly, their heads bent together over martini glasses. Clint liked Pepper, typically. She was usually the voice of reason. Tonight, however, she’d abandoned him to his fate with a little smile and a finger wiggle, letting Sharon drape penis necklaces around her without complaint and wearing them like they were bejeweled masterpieces.

_Where the fuck are you?_

Clint blinked in surprise. He hadn’t actually expected a response. 

_Bachelorette party._

There was a pause with several moments of ellipses and then-

_Are you the entertainment?_

_Fuck off,_ Clint sent back. _I’m in the bridal party my best friends getting married._

When there was no response for long enough to make Clint nervous, he sent another text. _If you rescue me, I’ll blow you._

_Only you, Barton. Where’re you at?_

Clint had to look around to figure out which fucking bar he was even in, at this point. The hipster calligraphy sign above the bar said _Better Luck Tomorrow_ , and Clint sent off his location without a second of hesitation.

_I’ll be there in ten minutes, meet me by the side entrance._

Clint did not question fate. Clint didn’t text back to ask why, Clint didn’t even _wonder_ why because wondering why Barnes was going to save him from this hellacious night was only inviting karma to bite him in the ass and punish him, so Clint just went with it. He tucked his phone in his pocket, signed _bathroom_ to Natasha - not that she noticed - and worked his way to the side entrance, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. He looked down, double checking he was no long sporting penile accoutrements that weren’t actually his own, and then moved to push his way out the door, only to nearly run smack into Barnes. 

Barnes, who was dressed in jeans so tight they should be goddamn _illegal_ , and a blue shirt that made his eyes look even more intense than they usually did and he-

He had an arm?

Barnes had a left arm, hanging loosely at his side, the fingers tucked semi-casually into his pocket, and Clint stared like an asshole for a handful of heartbeats before his brain informed him it was obviously a prosthetic, and he traced his eyes further along their path, taking in Barnes’ _thighs in the goddamn jeans_ , before he finally met Barnes’ eyes again. 

“Holy shit, Barnes, you clean up nice.”

Barnes rolled his eyes, even as he strode the rest of the way into the bar, stopping just shy of touching Clint. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he said, though it seemed a little begrudging, and Clint smirked at him.

“I looked better before Maria stole my jacket to impress some girl.”

“I don’t know how you aren’t naked all the time, all the clothes you lose,” Barnes grumbled. He glanced over Clint’s shoulder, obviously looking for someone - probably the rest of Clint’s party. 

“Told ‘em I was taking a bathroom break,” Clint told him. “But, uh, I’m 100% down to make good on my offer, since you showed up here like a white knight to rescue me.”

Barnes snorted again. “I rescued myself, more like. I was at my pal’s bachelor party at Satin Dolls. I haven’t seen so many tits since guys were passin’ dirty magazines around the barracks.”

“This is not better,” Clint reassured him. “They keep forcing shots they’re calling ‘vajazzles’ on me.”

“What does that even fuckin’ mean?” Barnes asked, looking appalled. 

Clint shrugged. He’d briefly considered googling it, then decided he didn’t need to know. “Buy you a drink?” he said, instead.

“Sure,” Barnes sighed. “Why the hell not?”

They shouldered their way to the bar, Clint slithering his way into a space that, by all rights, should not have had enough room for him, but he made it work, twisting his hips until he got into the spot, then reaching back and tugging Barnes up next to him to perch on a stool. They were pressed together from knees to chest, but it was hardly the closest they’d ever been, so Clint wasn’t too worried about it. “What’re you drinkin’?” he asked, bent in close to breathe the words into Barnes’ ear, where they’d be heard. 

God knew Clint couldn’t hear shit in these places, which was one of the many reasons he hated them. He preferred hole in the wall dives, with old jukeboxes and pool tables and darts, not blaring club music and barely-legal girls. 

Barnes shivered against him, and it made Clint grin, which made Barnes glare. “Whiskey,” he said, finally. “On the rocks.”

Clint ordered two, because that was easier than shouting two orders over the noise, and the bartender added it to Clint’s tab without a second glance. 

“To heteronormative wedding traditions,” Clint said, holding his glass up for a toast.

Barnes rolled his eyes again, but he clinked Clint’s glass before swallowing down the whiskey, his eyes never leaving Clint’s.

“What’re you doin’ after the party?” he asked, swirling the alcohol in his glass thoughtfully. 

Clint hummed. “Pouring the bride into bed, probably, then goin’ home. Why?” He grinned. “You free later?”

“You can come by, if you want.” Barnes shrugged his right shoulder, and he looked vaguely uncomfortable but determined. 

“Love to,” Clint said, meaning it. “But it’s gonna be late and if I show up at shit-o-clock in the morning, I wanna at least get a nap before you throw me out on my ass.”

Barnes gave him a very thorough once-over, considering. “Give me some incentive,” he said, smirking.

Clint downed the rest of his whiskey, thumping the glass on the bar, watching as Barnes followed suit, then tugged him off the bar stool and into a dark corner of the room, near the ancient ATM and out of the neon lights. He crowded Barnes against the wall, wedging a thigh between his legs. “This alright?” he checked, rocking his hips against Barnes’.

Glancing around, Barnes gave him a tenuous nod. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

Clint took him at his word, even though he didn’t look all that sure, and leaned in, pressing their mouths together in something hot and daring. He bit at Barnes’ mouth, nipping his full lower lip before sucking it into his mouth and pressing his thigh even harder against the half-hard cock he could just feel in Barnes’ pants. He dragged his mouth across Barnes’ jaw, up to his earlobe, before sucking that into his mouth too.

Barnes’ hand found its way around Clint’s waist to fist in the back of his shirt as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“If you let me spend the night, I’ll let you fuck my face,” Clint offered, breathing low and hot against Barnes’ skin. 

The low, punched-out sound he got in response seemed promising, and Clint grinned into the side of Barnes’ neck. 

“Enticing,” Barnes said, low and a little breathy. “Keep talkin’.”

They were interrupted, however, by a shriek that was just familiar enough that it made Clint groan, followed by Sharon’s voice. 

“Oh my god, _Clint_ , did you leave the party for a hook-up?”

She sounded utterly scandalized, as though Maria hadn’t done the exact same damn thing an hour ago. Clint sighed into Barnes’ shoulder then straightened up. 

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” he pointed out a little acerbically. “And I’m not leaving for a hook-up,” _yet_ , he added mentally. “I was just-”

Barnes cut him off with his mouth, pulling him down for a deep, languid kiss that he broke off just before it got a little too involved for public viewing. “I happened to be nearby,” Barnes interjected smoothly, “and thought I’d come by to say hello.” He smirked at Sharon over Clint’s shoulder. It was dark enough in their little corner that Clint couldn’t be sure how much of Barnes’ face she could see, but she could definitely hear his remarks. “I’ll see you back at home later, yeah?” he added, running his fingers along the buttons of Clint’s shirt. 

“Yeah,” Clint managed, swallowing hard. “Later.”

Barnes sauntered out the inconspicuous side entrance with Clint’s eyes glued to his ass.

Sharon cleared her throat pointedly, then dragged Clint back to the bar by the edge of his sleeve, like a misbehaving child. He shook her off, disgruntled, as they got closer. This was only going to end badly for him, he knew, because Sharon had never really liked him. She was friends with Nat’s fiance, Steve, more than she was Nat, and she didn’t seem to be of the opinion that Natasha was anything like good enough for a man who’d got a Silver Star for pulling his best friend out of a combat zone and saving his life. 

She had even suggested that Clint should be joining the _men’s_ party with the groom, rather than being at the bachelorette, something Clint had taken personal offense to, seeing as he was standing up for Natasha as Best Man. She’d made it perfectly clear she didn’t approve of Natasha and, by extension, Clint - whom she’d apparently pegged as a bad influence and useless human being. Her opinion of him hadn’t been improved by Lucky eating one of her shoes at a bar-b-que Steve had hosted in an effort to mitigate the animosity.

Clint and Natasha had been friends since high school, when Clint had transferred in as a foster kid and Natasha was being shunned for being a foreign kid who’d been adopted. She’d had a rough accent and a mean right hook, and Clint had been a deaf former-circus-kid, and they’d banded together in self-defense. Eventually, she’d got a scholarship to Julliard and Clint had followed her to New York because what else was he gonna do with his life? They’d split the rent on a shoebox apartment and then on a slightly-larger than shoe-box apartment until Natasha had graduated and Clint had found enough steady jobs that they could afford their own places. And then Clint had accidentally won an apartment building from the Russian mob in a set of circumstances they didn’t speak of, but which meant that Natasha had had a few sharp words around the neighborhood until his tracksuit thug problem had gone away.

A bond forged in that kind of fire wasn’t easily broken, and Natasha had never reconsidered making Clint the most important person in her wedding aside from her adopted father, Nick. Steve had agreed whole-heartedly, embracing Clint warmly and cackling in delight at the stories he told of him and Nat growing up together. Clint really liked the guy, if he was being honest, and even though Natasha pretended she didn’t care about anyone’s opinion, Clint knew she had been relieved to have both Clint and Nick welcome Steve into the fold.

Sharon was just a cross that Clint, evidently, had to bear. 

“So I found Clint,” she announced, as soon as they were back by the tables they’d commandeered near the darts. “He was making out with his boyfriend by the bathrooms.”

Clint closed his eyes and prayed for a quick and merciful death. 

When he opened them again, he was - unfortunately - still alive, and Natasha was glaring at him over the rim of her martini glass.

“Boyfriend?” she said, dangerously. 

Clint sighed. “He’s not-”

“Clint’s apparently planning to meet him at ‘home’ after we’re done.” Sharon added, gleefully. 

“Well, I guess that answers the question of whether or not you’re bringing a date to the wedding,” Natasha said, deceptively casual. 

“I don’t know if-”

Sharon cut him off _again_ , and Clint wondered if she knew that he could hit bullseyes blindfolded in the dark with his archery skills, because he was just about ready to demonstrate on her. 

“So how did you guys even meet?” she asked, picking up a drink from the table that had her lipstick on the edges of the glass. “Like was it on Grindr or?”

Sharon was goddamn notorious for asking Clint shitty relationship questions. He wasn’t sure if it was a dig at him for being bisexual, or because all his relationships were known trainwrecks, or if she really was just that clueless. Regardless, it was annoying as fuck. He wondered if she pulled the same shit with Maria, and doubted it because Maria wasn’t the type to take that lying down.

Neither was Clint, at least not tonight.

“Please stop asking gay couples how they met,” Clint said, tired and annoyed. “Yes, Sharon, I met him on Grindr. I sucked his dick. Then I ghosted him for two months and then he moved in with me. _God_.” 

Sharon gave him a wide-eyed look of disbelief, mouth open as she clearly scrambled for something to say, and then Wanda started laughing. Pepper was quick to follow, her laugh throaty and genuinely amused, and Clint was grateful for both of them.

“My goodness,” Wanda said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “That’s a story to tell the grandchildren. Another round, I think, so that we can toast to Clint’s good fortune.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but Wanda dimpled up at him, clearly pleased with herself. She signaled the server, then scooted over on the low chair she was perched on so Clint could wedge himself in beside her. Pepper shot him a wink.

“Thanks,” he said, after a few seconds of quiet during which Wanda insinuated herself under his arm, deceptively tiny. She was incredibly badass - having just landed a position in the District Attorney's office while she studied to pass the bar - and Clint often forgot how incredibly fragile she appeared until she stood next to him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. 

“You are very welcome,” she assured him, patting his knee. “Now tell me about the boyfriend.”

She was another of Clint’s strays, as Nat called them, because he collected people like a dragon hoarding treasure, safely under his dubious protection. Wanda and her brother, Pietro, had got caught sideways with the Russian tracksuit mafia - the very same group of thugs he and Nat had dealt with - and Clint had been all too happy to step in and sort the situation out using his fists. Then he’d set her and Pietro up with a place in his building and now they were like the unruly and overbearing family he’d never had. The annoying younger siblings who gave a shit about him but also endlessly tormented him with their shenanigans. 

“Not a boyfriend,” Clint corrected her. 

“Ah,” she said, still delighted. “This is the boy who has been keeping you so happy lately, yes?”

Clint groaned. “He’s not my boyfriend. We just fuck sometimes.” _A lot._

“And he comes to your rescue in hipster bars,” she reminded him. “Very un-boyfriend-like behavior.”

This was why Wanda was going to be the city’s most badass public defender, and also why he didn’t share the details of his personal life with her. 

“He just wants to get laid later,” Clint told her, resigned to the fact that this was his life now. Natasha was leaning sideways into Pepper, her eyes on Sharon and Okoye where they were dancing near a pool table, but she was clearly listening in on the conversation. 

“Mmm,” Wanda hummed, but she didn’t bother to pretend she believed him.

The round of shots she’d requested appeared, more of the cursed vajazzles that Clint was now more than convinced weren’t even a real thing, and Clint swallowed his without complaint. He switched to beer after that, because he’d taken it upon himself to make sure Nat got home safely, and it was easier to fend off offers of alcohol once he’d declared himself the Designated Not-Driver. As the night wore on, they lost a few more stragglers, until finally, blessedly, Clint and Nat were the only ones left, Wanda departing with Carol after pressing kisses to both his cheeks and laughingly promising not to wait up even though she didn’t actually live in his apartment.

The gentle and not-so-gentle prodding about his love life had never really stopped though, with Sharon making pointed remarks, Natasha asking seemingly-benign questions, and Wanda giggling at Clint every so often. At least Okoye and Carol seemed uninterested, and Clint was entirely grateful for their calm, take-no-shit presence. Pepper didn’t have anything to say either, but she kept shooting him sidelong glances that felt a little too much like an evaluation.

By the time Clint was pouring Natasha into her bed in her much-nicer and less-disastrous-than-his apartment, Clint was sick of answering questions about his mysterious ‘boyfriend’ and more than ready to get railed to within an inch of his life so he didn’t have to think anymore. 

“I was going to set you up with James,” Natasha told him, in the darkness of her bedroom, serious in the way that only drunk Russians could be. 

“Steve’s friend?” Clint asked, humouring her. He slid the deadly-high stilettos off of her feet and dropped them at the end of the bed. He’d heard all about James, Steve’s childhood pal who’d been in the army with him, and for whom Steve had launched a one-man rescue mission when he’d been captured behind enemy lines by a terrorist group. Clint had never met James, but he figured it wasn’t all that unusual for members of the opposite wedding parties not to know each other. James was Steve’s Best Man, but his circle didn’t otherwise overlap with Clint’s. “Isn’t that a bit stereotypical, the Best Man hooking up with the- well, the Best Man in this case.”

“Yes,” she agreed, ignoring the tangent. “But if you have already found someone, I’m glad.” She reached out, cupping the edge of his jaw, and god, now she was serious-Russian _and_ sappy-romantic drunk. “You deserve nice things, _Yastreb,_ ” she told him.

She’d been calling him _Yastreb_ for years, ever since she’d learned he’d been called Hawkeye back at Carson’s, though it got shortened to _Yas_ when she was feeling particularly sentimental or inebriated and telling stories.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she turned her back on him. “Undo my zipper,” she demanded, “and then go home to your not-boyfriend.”

Clint reached out and eased the zipper all the way down, exposing the strong muscles of Nat’s back and the length of her spine. Ballet had chiseled her down into a figure that was artfully slight but strong, and in another life or universe, they might have had something. But Nat had Steve, who deserved her far more than Clint ever would, and Clint was perfectly content to play the role of platonic soulmate and best friend for as long as she wanted him in her life. 

“Night,” Clint said, brushing his mouth across her temple as he stood. “Drink some water,” he added, nodding at the glass he’d put on the nightstand for her.

“Fuck off,” she mumbled, shuffling under the covers and wrestling her clothes off at the same time.

Clint flicked the lights off on his way out the door, carefully locking up as he left. 

Then he took the F train to Bucky’s apartment, texting him as he stepped off onto the platform. 

_Be there in 5._

He didn’t get anything back, which was mildly worrying considering it was 3am and the trip back to Clint’s apartment was, at best, a half hour subway ride, but Clint was already in the neighborhood so he could at least knock on the door. 

His worries were unfounded anyway, because he got buzzed up immediately, and Barnes was waiting for him in his apartment, prosthesis abandoned but still dressed in the ridiculously tight jeans and an undershirt. 

“Finally,” Barnes muttered, like Clint had inconvenienced him, but he yanked Clint closer with a fist in his shirt, pulled him into a kiss that had their teeth clacking together. 

Clint huffed into the kiss, but he wasn’t about to try and pretend he wasn’t just as into this as Barnes was, kissing him back just as hard and wrestling his arms clear so that he could slide them against the hot skin of Barnes’ back. He could taste the whiskey on Barnes’ tongue.

“Thanks for the save earlier,” Clint muttered, dipping down to wrap his teeth around Barnes’ earlobe. “I owe you one.”

Although, to be fair, the cost in party conversation topics and the probable ramifications with Nat might not be worth it. It depended, he figured, on how good the sex was to make up for it. And with Barnes, the sex was always very, very good.

“Great, I’ll be sure to collect,” Barnes told him, already pulling him towards the bedroom. When they were through the door, his hand dropped to the fly of his jeans, where he wrenched the button fly open. “I think you said something about me fucking your face.”

Clint laughed again - and if he were honest with himself, even when Barnes was being an asshole, Clint had never laughed so much during sex - but dropped to his knees willingly enough. He batted Barnes’ hands away and tugged the jeans down far enough that he could work his cock out of the tiniest black boxer-briefs he’d ever seen. He licked a sloppy, wet stripe up his cock, then held his hand out wordlessly. 

Barnes slapped a condom into it, already unwrapped.

“Very thoughtful,” Clint told him, but he leaned back. “Changed my mind, I want your jeans off. Your fucking thighs, Jesus.”

He glanced up quick enough that he caught Barnes’ eyeroll, but he was also a little flushed, like he was pleased with the compliment. 

Huh.

A slightly inebriated Barnes was a more relaxed Barnes. Good to know. 

Clint hooked his fingers in the belt loops of Barnes’ jeans and tugged at them, and between Barnes’ help and his own pulling, the jeans were finally stripped off his legs to pool around his ankles, and Barnes kicked his way free, sending the jeans sliding across the room to wind up next to the hamper. The boxer briefs were still on, though, Barnes’ cock pushed over the waistband, but the black cotton still wrapped lovingly around his thighs and hips. Clint ran his fingertips under the edge of the leg, and then slapped Barnes, lightly, on the ass. 

Barnes jumped and gave Clint a dirty look, but Clint just winked at him, rolled the condom down his dick with practiced ease, and followed it with his mouth.

Clint despised the taste of latex, but the way Barnes’ cock jumped between his lips was immensely gratifying. He eased all the way down, until Barnes’ dick was all the way down his throat, and swallowed a few times, getting used to the sensation. Then he bobbed back up and down, relaxing his jaw and throat until the glide was smooth and Clint’s gag reflex was fully suppressed. 

Glancing up from under his lashes, Clint tugged on Barnes’ hips, prompting him to move. 

Barnes was flushed, his eyes dark even in the dim light of the room, and he groaned low in his throat. He brought his hand up to Clint’s face, his thumb brushing across Clint’s cheek as his fingers glided along his jaw, feeling the stretch there. Then he wrapped his hand around the back of Clint’s head and thrust forward, a little gingerly. Barnes was always careful around his hearing aids, even when he was being rough in bed, and Clint appreciated the awareness and consideration. For all that he acted like an asshole, Clint was pretty sure Barnes was secretly a nice guy at heart.

Clint moaned around him, his eyes fluttering shut. 

Barnes pulled back and thrust again, a little harder. 

Clint let his body go lax, sitting back on his heels and tilting his head so that Barnes could fuck his face as hard or as fast as he wanted. He kept his hands on Barnes’ hips, mostly for balance, and gave another encouraging tug. 

Finally, finally, Barnes seemed to take him at his word, because he began swivelling his hips with more confidence, pushing deeper each time he thrust forward, until Clint was swallowing around the head of his cock at regular intervals and blinking back tears. He was only peripherally aware of anything else in the room, Barnes heavy panting and his own breath whistling through his nose, and the feel of hot skin under his fingertips. It was dark and quiet except for the sloppy sounds of sex, and that was just how Clint liked it. 

He hadn’t even got his shirt off and it was fucking _perfect._

Moaning again, Clint squeezed Barnes’ hips, making his rhythm stutter and a matching moan forced its way out of Barnes’ throat. 

“Fuck,” Barnes murmurred, and Clint opened his eyes again to look at him. Barnes looked utterly wrecked, his hair escaping from the bun Barnes had somehow wrestled it into to fan around his face. “ _Fuck,_ Barton, goddamn.”

If he could’ve smiled with a mouthful of cock, Clint would’ve. Instead, he just leaned that much further into Barnes’ next thrust, took his dick that little bit deeper that Barnes hadn’t quite reached already, and it was enough to set Barnes off. He made a choked-off noise, shuddering under Clint’s hands as his hips worked in frantic, jerky motions with his cock deep in Clint’s throat. Clint held still, let him work himself through it until he slumped, and then Clint eased back, gasping for air. 

Barnes stood over him, his head thrown back, breathing hard. He still had a hand on Clint’s shoulder, and his thighs were still _so goddamn good._ Clint wanted to lick them.

And why not? Clint leaned forward, dragging his tongue across the thick muscle, stopping to nip at the edge of the boxer-briefs. 

Barnes jerked underneath him, but didn’t pull away. 

“Up,” he ordered instead, yanking at Clint’s shirt. “Clothes off.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Clint muttered, climbing to his feet and ignoring the tingling sensation in his toes as blood rushed back to his feet. He hadn’t even noticed they’d fallen asleep under him. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt and then yanked it over his head, letting it fall to the floor. 

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ I work for a living,” Barnes shot back, then looked surprised at himself. 

Clint didn’t give him time to second-guess it or make this weird and angsty, he just dropped his jeans on the floor and then crowded himself into Barnes’ space, replacing the lingering taste of latex on his tongue with the familiar flavor of Barnes’ mouth. His cock pressed up against Barnes’ stomach, hard and throbbing. Barnes reached down and wrapped his fist around it, giving it a few firm pulls that made Clint weak in the knees, and then he shoved Clint sideways onto the bed. 

He landed in an undignified heap, arms akimbo and his feet hanging over the edge. It didn’t stop Barnes, who finally lost the underwear as he climbed over Clint in the bed, propping himself up on his arm to continue kissing him. He quickly worked his mouth lower, landing sharp, sucking kisses on Clint’s skin that were sure to be bruises tomorrow. Clint groaned, arching into the contact. Barnes slid lower, mouthing over his chest, biting at his nipples until Clint was practically whimpering and then he sat up, crouching between Clint’s knees. 

He spread his legs a little wider, giving Barnes more room. Clint didn’t think he was gonna get fucked, because even though Barnes had a pretty impressive recovery time, five minutes really wasn’t gonna be enough, but Barnes was reaching into his nightstand where Clint knew he kept the lube, and Clint felt his cock jerk in response. 

Barnes smirked down at him as he pumped the lube into his hand and Clint made his five hundredth mental note to get a pump-bottle of lube.

“You want my fingers in you?” he asked, rubbing the lube between them. 

Clint nodded wildly, bending his left knee up to make room. 

Reaching down, Barnes circled the pads of his fingers around Clint’s hole, spreading lube. Clint couldn’t help the small sound that escaped his throat, or the way he pressed into the contact. Barnes slid a finger into him, working it in easily, and this time Clint didn’t even try to hold back the moan. A second finger followed just a few thrusts later, and then Barnes was curling them so that they scraped up against his prostate in electrifying sensation. 

“Jerk yourself off,” Barnes ordered, massaging his fingertips into Clint’s prostate and making him shout. Clint fumbled to obey, wrapping a fist around his dick and grabbing his thigh with his other hand, pulling himself open wider.

Barnes’ eyes raked over him, dark and heated, almost like a physical caress, and he pressed a third finger inside Clint, stretching him open and making him feel full. Clint gasped, his eyes sliding shut as he worked his fist roughly over his cock. 

“There you go,” Barnes murmured, adjusting his rhythm to match Clint’s, “wanna watch you come.”

“‘M close,” Clint warned, arching his back.

“You like sucking me off that much?” Barnes asked, sounding amused. 

“Yeah,” Clint said, drowning in his own pleasure and too raw to be anything but honest. “Like makin’ you feel good.”

Barnes made a small noise of surprise, but it wasn’t enough to distract Clint. He was so close he could taste the orgasm in the back of his throat, Barnes fingers filling him up in the exact same rhythm he was jerking his cock. Almost like fucking himself, except Barnes was scraping against his prostate with every thrust and Clint wasn’t sure even his aim was good enough for that and then he was coming and coming and _coming,_ a low-pitched groan escaping from his throat as he painted himself white, his motions getting slick as he coaxed the last of the orgasm from his body. Barnes’ fingers slowed too, until he was just holding his hand still in Clint’s body as Clint sank into the mattress, letting his leg flop open beside him. 

Gently - so gently, Clint hadn’t even realized Barnes was capable of this level of gentle - Barnes eased his fingers out of Clint one at a time, leaving Clint feeling empty but not as tender as he might have. 

Clint lay in the bed, still panting for air, as Barnes levered himself off of it and walked into the attached bathroom. Clint heard water turn on and hoped he wasn’t about to be kicked out again. He hadn’t been kidding in the bar when he’d told Barnes if he came over he was definitely spending the night. It had to be close to 4am by now and Clint was both exhausted and probably still a little tipsy. He’d sleep on the couch if he had to.

But Barnes came back with a washcloth, moved like he was going to clean Clint off and then seemed to change his mind at the last second, handing it to him instead.

“Thanks,” Clint said, quiet in the near-silence of the room. He used it to wipe his hand and his chest down and then sat up. Barnes held his hand out, but Clint tossed the cloth into the laundry hamper across the room, where it sailed in without even touching the sides. 

“Nice shot,” Barnes told him, sounding unreasonably surprised.

“I never miss,” Clint informed him, then yawned widely. It occurred to him that Barnes really didn’t know that much about him, outside the bathroom. He’d never seemed interested, and Clint hadn’t felt pressured to share. “I’m an archer,” he offered, which wasn’t really a revelation since it was on his Grindr profile - a photo of him lining up on a target. 

“I know,” Barnes said, shoving at Clint and pulling the sheets out from under him, proving Clint’s point. Clint shifted until he was on the side of the bed closest to the wall. 

They settled onto the mattress side-by-side. It probably should have been awkward but Clint was too tired and too sated to really be bothered.

“I was a sniper,” Bucky offered in the dark, as Clint slipped into the edges of sleep.

“Cool,” he said, and had a brief thought that maybe that wasn’t the best possible response, and then he was gone, dead to the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint woke up with the gummy feeling in his ears from sleeping in his hearing aids that he despised, and the knowledge that he wasn’t in his own bed. 

Also, he was naked. Which wasn’t that unusual but he wasn’t usually naked in strange places.

Okay, that wasn’t true either. Clint had woken up naked in far stranger places than an unfamiliar bed.

He whined pathetically, and then the sound that had penetrated his consciousness registered. It was a creepy melody, some rendition of  _ The Itsy Bitsy Spider _ that Nat had programmed into his phone and took great pains to reprogram anytime Clint figured out how to remove it. He whined again.

Barnes nudged him with his foot and, when Clint didn’t move, gave a disgruntled huff before climbing out of bed to grab Clint’s pants from the floor and oh-

That’s right.

He’d spent the night at Barnes’ place. All night. And survived to tell the tale. Nice. 

Barnes bed was much more comfortable than his, Clint noted.

“Who’s  _ Pauchok? _ ” Barnes asked, sounding baffled. He pronounced it correctly, which surprised the hell out of Clint, who’d spent years perfecting the exact cadence.

“Ugh,” Clint groaned, and held out his hands in the universally understood  _ gimme _ gesture. “Best friend. Bridezilla.” He blinked his eyes open in alarm. “Do not tell her I said that,” Clint said, suddenly horrified that she’d know anyway. 

Barnes rolled his eyes as he passed Clint the phone then flopped back onto the mattress, his elbow catching Clint in the chest and making him  _ oof. _

“What?” Clint griped into the phone. “Shouldn’t you be hungover?”

“We’re having pedicures in an hour,” she told him acerbically. “I have just been  _ informed _ .” 

“No,” Clint whined. “I’m sleeping.  _ I’m _ hungover.”

“You’re not and if I have to suffer you have to suffer with me. Gilt Nail Bar. If you are not there, I will personally come and find you.” She hung up on Clint’s indignant squawking. 

Ten seconds later she called back. “Don’t forget we have the rehearsal dinner tonight.” She hung up again. 

Clint sighed forlornly. Barnes was smirking at him from where he was sprawled on the pillow, arm wrapped around it and hair riotous. He googled Gilt and discovered he in no way had time to take the subway back to his place, shower, change, and make it on time. He was not convinced that Natasha wasn’t actually going to murder him, and he was relatively certain this excursion had been planned by someone who secretly hated him. 

Possibly Maria, but more likely Pepper. 

He turned doe eyes on Barnes, because he knew he was about to be crossing a line. “I need a favor.”

Barnes sighed like he was entirely put-upon, but his eyes were still a little crinkled around the edges and he looked happier than Clint thought he’d ever seen him. Clint didn’t know if it was the sex or the alcohol, or if Barnes was just a morning person, but Clint was willing to play on the favor of the gods at this point. 

“Can I have a shower here? And maybe borrow a shirt?”

Barnes rolled his eyes again, but he must have been feeling particularly magnanimous because he motioned Clint vaguely towards the bathroom. “Have at it. Towels are in the closet. Don’t use my conditioner.”

Joke was on him, Clint didn’t even  _ own _ conditioner. 

Barnes’ water pressure was better than his too, dammit. Why did everyone have nicer apartments than him?

Then again, Clint owned his building and didn’t pay rent, so he was probably winning in that department. 

When he got out of the shower, his jeans were folded neatly and waiting for him on the countertop, along with a pair of his own - clean - boxers, and an unfamiliar t-shirt. Something unfurled in Clint’s chest at the knowledge that Barnes had washed his left-behind clothes. He unfolded the t-shirt. It was a washed-out grey, comfortably worn, and said ‘I taught your boyfriend that thing you like’. Clint couldn’t help but grin before he pulled it over his head. He was stretching the shoulders and biceps pretty tightly, but he figured it fit well enough for a goddamn pedicure appointment. 

A  _ pedicure appointment. _ God, what was his life?

He flung his damp towel over the shower curtain rod and rinsed his mouth as thoroughly as he could with the mouthwash he spotted by the sink in lieu of a toothbrush. 

Barnes was once again lying in bed when Clint came out in a cloud of steam, the sheets barely covering his hips, and Clint was struck with the sudden urge to climb back into bed with him and dirty him up some more. Barnes even looked like he’d welcome the intrusion, giving Clint a once-over that seemed to invite trouble. 

Clint restrained himself only because he was like… eighty-five percent certain that Natasha would, at a minimum, maim him. 

Instead, he ambled closer and leaned down to plant a thorough kiss on the man, trailing his hand down Barnes’ spine. 

A goodbye kiss.

They didn’t really do those, Clint realized, halfway through the motions, before giving a mental shrug and doing it anyway. If Barnes didn’t like it, he’d shove Clint off of him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t made his preferences known in the past. Barnes leaned into it though, shifting up on his elbow to meet Clint in the middle, kissing him back just as intently. 

“See you later Barnes,” Clint breathed, easing away. 

He was nearly to the bedroom door when Barnes spoke. 

“Bucky,” he said, still lounging indolently on the bed like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Hell, he probably didn’t. He definitely didn’t have a sadistic day of pedicures and rehearsal dinners awaiting him, anyway.

“See you later Bucky,” Clint said, grinning, and then ducked out while his luck was still holding.

*

The pedicure was actually kind of relaxing, once Clint got there, because they’d handed out mimosas and he’d got a foot rub with his nail treatment, though he’d drawn the line at polish - even clear polish - on his toes. Natasha had given him an evaluating look when he’d arrived, and then she’d purposely leaned her head back into the massage chair and ignored him. Until it was time to go, and then she’d said, offhand, “That isn’t your shirt.”

“No,” Clint agreed, but refused to succumb to the pressure.

“Boyfriends,” she said, sounding entirely certain.

“Not even remotely,” Clint refuted, but she ignored him again as she headed in the opposite direction. She had a hair appointment, apparently, and approximately ten thousand things to do before the rehearsal dinner later.

Clint was grateful because he needed a break. He hoofed it back to his apartment, happy to see the lived-in walls and hear the scrabble of dog nails on the worn wooden floors. Clint had asked Kate to keep Lucky for the night because he’d figured on being out late with Nat, but she must have dropped him off on her way to work this morning, because he greeted Clint at the door with an all-over wiggle that made Clint smile.

“Hey bud,” he said, toeing his shoes off and kicking them aside, “didya miss me?” He crouched down to ruffle Lucky’s fur, letting the dog crowd into his space and lick at his neck. 

First things first, Clint needed a nap.

Then he had to figure out what to wear to a rehearsal dinner. 

Glaring into his closet after a not-long-enough-but-would-have-to-suffice nap, Clint settled on his only other pair of jeans he owned that didn’t have holes in them and a dark purple button-down shirt that needed ironing. Clint had no idea if he even owned an iron, so he shook it out as best he could and went to brush his teeth. At the last second he decided to hang the shirt in the bathroom and run the hot water for the amount of time it took him to make and drink a cup of coffee to see if it helped the wrinkles.

It did not, and Clint gave up.

It wasn’t like Natasha didn’t  _ know _ him. His clothes for the wedding were being carefully held hostage at her apartment precisely for this reason. She even had his shoes. He was, in fact, supposed to spend the night at her place. It’d been framed up as a bridal slumber party - Pepper and Wanda would be there too - but Clint knew the truth, which was that it was to ensure he was properly attired and on time to her wedding.

Clint couldn’t even be mad about it because it was probably necessary.

The rehearsal dinner was being held at some tiny mom and pop Italian place that Steve had picked out, and Clint had a vague recollection of Nat mentioning something about his mother. Clint wasn’t sure if Steve and his mom had eaten there or if she’d worked there or what the details were, but he did know Steve’s mom had passed away when he was a teenager, and Clint had that at least in common with him. Not that they talked about those things, because Clint didn’t talk about his childhood  _ at all _ , but he was sympathetic to the idea that there might be some grief tangled up in tonight’s event. 

He was supposed to meet the infamous James tonight too, actually. Surely the other Best Man would be at the rehearsal dinner.  _ Clint _ had to be there, so clearly James did too. He wished Natasha hadn’t told him of her previous plans to set them up, and he sincerely hoped she hadn’t mentioned them to James, because hello awkward. Also, Clint was in no way relationship material and Nat shouldn’t be getting anyone’s hopes up like that. Meeting Clint in the context of a planned event - where he was on his best behavior and making a sincere attempt to impress - was completely different than knowing Clint in the context of his regular life, where he was a disaster. 

The restaurant was easily within walking distance of Clint’s apartment, and he was, remarkably, on time, arriving at the restaurant a full five minutes before he was told was the absolute latest he could arrive, feeling rather proud of himself. The hostess took him to a small, upstairs space, obviously set aside for parties and just as obviously decorated by Pepper, very modern minimalist with small flower arrangements and clean white tablecloths. There were paper menus at every setting and a large printed tree where, evidently, guests were meant to put their fingerprints. 

And a gift table.

Oh shit, had Clint been meant to bring a gift?

Natasha caught him at the table, hooking her arm through his elbow and driving back the impending panic. 

“You’re on time,” she said, sounding surprised and pleased, and looking like a model in a deep red jumpsuit with legs that split at the sides to reveal smooth pale skin with every step. Why on earth was she friends with him, Clint wondered, looking down at his wrinkled shirt in dismay. 

“I can be on time! If I want to be!” Clint protested half-heartedly.

“Mmm,” she said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and lifted a champagne flute to her mouth to hide her smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” he agreed. “I don’t have to give a speech though, right?”

Natasha laughed, low and smoky, and Clint could suddenly see everything it was that people liked about her, were drawn to, and underneath that, the very best friend he’d ever had. She was beautiful and fiercely loyal and like a forest fire when she was angry and he was struck with the sudden urge to give Steve Rogers the shovel talk of his  _ life. _

“No speeches today,” she assured him. “Just the one you have to give tomorrow, which I’m sure you’ve given an appropriate amount of time and thought to.”

Clint blanched. He had a speech, sure, but it was-

Well, he could work on it tonight, after dinner, he supposed. 

She walked him over to a round table near the front, set with five places, and coaxed him into a chair next to hers. There weren’t any name tags on the seats, but it was obvious that this table - positioned near the front of the room and in everyone’s line of sight - was intended for the bride and groom and their nearest and dearest. Five seats meant - yep, there was Nick, striding across the room in his signature all-black ensemble and taking the seat next to Clint. Steve was off to the side, speaking to a handsome black man with a goatee, but he had a pinched look on his face that made Clint wonder if something was wrong.

“Steve okay?” Clint asked Natasha, bending low so that his words were solely for her. 

She grimaced. “James isn’t here.”

“Rude,” Clint remarked, a little bit baffled.

“You weren’t at the engagement party,” Natasha reminded him.

“Yeah, but that was-” Natasha was giving him a significant look. Clint hadn’t been at the engagement party, but it was because he’d been at the ER with a concussion and- “Oh.” So it was like that, and not because he was flaking out. “Is he gonna be okay? Will he be at the wedding tomorrow?”

If James wasn’t at the wedding then-

“It will be fine,” Natasha said, sounding calm and certain. “He is fine, Steve is being overbearing.”

Steve did have some mother-hen tendencies, Clint knew. Steve sill looked vaguely worried, his eyebrows pinched together a little, but as Clint watched, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it and the expression smoothed away. He made his way to their table, the man he’d been talking to trailing behind, and they sat down.

“Clint, hey, how are you?” Steve said, making an effort to smile and looking genuinely glad to see him. “Have you met Sam?”

Clint hadn’t met Sam because he’d been absent from the aforementioned party, but he held his hand out to shake and Sam gave him a wide smile.

He was pleasant company, funny and sarcastic without ever being mean about it, and dinner passed smoothly, with courses coming out and wine glasses kept full. Nick gave a short speech thanking everyone for coming - everyone being the small bridal party and a few other close friends and family members, some of whom Clint knew because they were Natasha’s friends and family, and some who were strangers because they clearly belonged to Steve. There was a short man who talked too fast and too much with his hands for Clint to follow that Steve introduced as Tony, and his friend Rhodey, and half a dozen other people that Clint quickly lost track of.

The dinner was winding down when Clint’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he excused himself from a frankly overwhelming conversation with Tony and Bruce about mechanical engineering to check. 

It was from Bucky.

_ You busy? _

Clint chewed on his lip. It wasn’t like Bucky to initiate conversation, and it definitely wasn’t like him to ask if Clint was busy, especially when they already had plans for Monday.  _ At dinner but I’ll be done soon. What’s up? _

There were several long minutes of ellipses and then-

_ Nothing, nevermind. _

Clint didn’t like that. Text didn’t really convey tone, but something about it didn’t seem right.  _ No, it’s fine, did you need something? _

Natasha was giving him a quizzical look and Clint shook the phone at her then pointed his way out of the room. He tried to arrange his face to let her know it was important, and she waved him away, turning back to her conversation with Maria.

Clint took the stairs down to the main restaurant and took a seat at the far end of the bar where it was quieter and he was less likely to be bothered. The bartender raised his eyebrows and Clint shook his head. “I’m with the party upstairs but I need to take a phone call.”

The bartender shrugged and moved back to other, paying customers.

_ I can talk, it’s nbd _ Clint sent, then waited for a response.

Shockingly, the phone rang in his hand, vibrating with Bucky’s name on the screen. 

“Hello?” Clint tried to keep the surprise out of his voice, but he wasn’t sure he managed it.

“Hey,” Bucky said, sounding subdued and maybe a little out of breath. 

“Everything okay?” Clint tried, not sure where to go with this. Bucky had never, even once, called him on the phone. 

“Yeah, I’m-” Bucky cleared his throat. “Just needed to talk to somebody for a few minutes.” His breathing sounded raspy and a little labored. 

Clint’s brain finally engaged. Bucky was a vet, Bucky probably had PTSD, and Bucky sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. Clint had had his fair share of panic attacks, especially after the way he’d grown up. 

“Can’t call my friend,” Bucky went on, still explaining. “He’s busy, and I know we’re not like that but-”

“Hey, it’s fine.” Clint said. “You can call me whenever. We’re friends, you can call.” And maybe they weren’t really friends, but they kind of were? Clint figured they were close enough, anyway. He knew what Bucky liked in bed and how he liked his whiskey, and what kind of shampoo he used. They were friends. 

There was silence over the line, and it was a little bit awkward, but Bucky wasn’t talking and-

“Somethin’ happen Buck?” Clint ventured, finally. 

“I got- you know how you don’t like when people touch your ears?” Bucky answered in a rush.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, and he signaled to the bartender, because if they were gonna talk about Clint’s ears, he was gonna need a drink stronger than champagne.  _ Vodka _ he mouthed, putting a hand over the receiver. The bartender held up two bottles and Clint pointed to the one that was slightly higher-end than well. The bartender poured it over ice and put the glass down in front of Clint. “Yeah, I hate that,” he continued. “Makes me panicky.” The admission didn’t cost him much, here, in the dark corner of a restaurant he’d never been in and probably would never come back to. It was just a little chip on the edge of his heart to share it with Bucky, who was clearly wrestling with something worse than Clint’s neuroses. 

“Yeah, well, I was havin’ a good day, you know?” Clint hummed in agreement. It  _ had  _ started out well, at least from his perspective. “So I thought I could- I tried to do somethin’ I’d been puttin’ off and it didn’t go so hot.”

  
“You okay? You need-” Clint didn’t know what to offer. Was Bucky home and safe or-? “-anything? Like, a ride or...?”

Bucky huffed what could constitute a laugh, if Clint were being very generous. “Nah, I’m home. This is good. Just need someone I trust to talk to.”

Clint made a little noise, something surprised and cut off. He hadn’t realized-

Okay now was not the time to be wallowing in that revelation. 

“Your friend gonna be free soon?”

Bucky made a pained sound. “Nah, he’s gonna be busy most of the night. I’m supposed- I was supposed to be there but-”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Clint soothed. “I’m sure he understands. Shit happens.”

“This was important,” Bucky said, sounding worn down in a way that made Clint’s heart hurt. “I missed a lotta important shit, I should be there for this.”

Clint shrugged. “My friend? The one that’s gettin’ married?” Bucky made an affirmative sound. “I missed the engagement because I’m a dumbass who tripped and nearly smashed my head in trying to pet a dog. So, you know, shit happens.”

Bucky gave another of the little almost-laughs. “You’re a disaster,” he said, but it sounded almost fond.

“Yeah, definitely,” Clint agreed, draining the last of his vodka. “You feelin’ better?”

“Little bit,” Bucky said, but he didn’t sound sure.

“You want me to come over?” Clint offered. Natasha would understand. Hell, Natasha would probably encourage him. “I can bring cake.” The cake was goddamn delicious, and Clint was planning to smuggle at least a few slices home for himself anyway. 

“Thanks, but no. I gotta-” Bucky paused. “You know what ‘hypervigilance’ means?”

Clint thought about it. It wasn’t a casual conversation topic, but he was maybe smart enough to parse out the word’s meaning. “Feeling too keyed up?” he guessed. 

“Somethin’ like that. I need my routine tonight. I gotta get up early, gotta do the good friend thing.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair.” Clint paused, weighing his words. “If you change your mind-”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, but it wasn’t aggressive, just a simple statement of fact.

Clint shrugged. “You can call anytime,” he reiterated, because he was fairly certain Bucky was regretting having called in the first place. 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, after a pause. “I appreciate it.” There was another pause. “I’ll let you get back to your dinner, sorry I interrupted.”

“No worries,” Clint said, meaning it. “You saved me from a fate worse than death, honestly. Engineers.”

Bucky snorted, and this, at last, sounded genuinely amused. “Doesn’t sound so bad,” he said. “I like science.”

“Of course you do,” Clint grumbled good-naturedly. He waited a beat and then- “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered softly. “Later, Clint.”

“Bye,” Clint said, but he was talking to nothing because Bucky had already hung up.

Clint shoved the phone into his pocket and ambled back up the stairs, his head full of static.

“Everything okay?” Natasha asked, when he sat down at the table and she got a good look at his face. 

“Yeah, it’s-” He scrunched his nose up. “It’s weird, but good? I think?”

“Sounds like you, Barton,” she grinned, and then patted his cheek and passed him another glass of champagne.

*

Waking up on Natasha’s couch on the day of her wedding didn’t feel any different than any of the other countless times Clint had woken up on her couch, except that he was significantly less hungover. Wanda had kicked him a little with her foot, jump-starting the process, and by the time Clint sat up and got his hearing aids in, Pepper had coffee going in the kitchen and Natasha was spreading pastries and bagels out on the small breakfast table. Hilariously, the girls had matching pajamas, soft cotton shirts and shorts with lace edges, bridal party gifts from Natasha, and she’d given Clint a t-shirt that said ‘Bridesman’ with a little printed bow tie that he was wearing with flannel pajama pants he’d put on solely as a courtesy to the hair and makeup crew that was coming to help the girls get ready. 

Clint considered laying back down and going back to sleep. It was going to take hours for the ladies to get ready, judging by past experience, and those were hours Clint could spend in dream land. 

Wanda handed him a cup of coffee though, and settled in beside him with a bagel and a cup of tea, thwarting his plans. 

“You can’t go back to sleep,” she chided him, gently, further proving that she was basically a mind-reader. “It’s about bonding with the bride, even if it only takes you fifteen minutes to get changed. Plus you should do something about your hair.”

Clint reached up and felt the wild haystack that his hair had become in his sleep and sighed despondently. “Fine,” he said, petulant, but he couldn’t quite hide the quirk of his lips. 

He was midway through his third cup of coffee when the hubbub finally got underway, a team of stylists arriving and buzzing around like murderous, hot-iron wielding bees. Clint got underfoot too often, unable to find a spot that was totally out of the way for more than five minutes, until finally he ended up perching on the kitchen counter in his pajamas to watch. 

Natasha was always beautiful, but it was interesting to watch her transform under the makeup artist and hairdresser’s hands. Nat had been in the New York Ballet Company for years now, and she’d danced Principal in any number of shows, so Clint had seen her transformed into everything from a swan princess to a sugar plum fairy, but this was different. She still looked like Nat, not a character in a production, but  _ more _ . The makeup was carefully applied to enhance her features, rather than to hide them behind a role. Her hair was curled and pinned, and when she stepped into her dress - casual ivory silk on top with miles of blush-colored chiffon for the skirt, like ballet had a baby with a wedding dress - it was like his best friend all grown up, only he hadn’t noticed before.

He didn’t like the way it made his eyes feel hot, but he felt a little privileged to witness it. 

Wanda and Pepper were beautiful too, in navy blue chiffon, but they weren’t  _ Nat _ . Nat had held Clint’s hand on the playground and punched bullies in the face, and helped him piece together his broken hearing aid so his foster parents wouldn’t find out. Nat had brought Clint to New York and helped him forge a life here and supported him every step of the way, and Clint was gonna be damned if he disappointed her today. 

“Hey, you look pretty okay,” he said, instead of all the weird mush of feelings in his chest. “I guess Steve might want to marry you, maybe.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and oh, there she was, his best friend since forever. “You could put on real pants,” she informed him.

“If you insist,” he said, and disappeared into the bedroom. 

His clothes for the wedding were nothing Clint would have chosen for himself, but he could admit they did  _ look _ good. White shirt, navy pants, some kind of wool or tweed vest, and brown shoes. Wanda ducked in behind him and forced him to duck down so she could fiddle with his hair, rubbing some kind of product into it that she’d either got from the hair people or bought specifically for this purpose - both possibilities were vaguely alarming - and making a satisfied sound when she was done. 

Facing the mirror, Clint could easily say she’d done a good job on his hair, and Nat had done a great job picking out clothes for him. He looked like a responsible adult, almost, and then Nat glided into the room with a little flower thing in her hand and a smile on her face. There was a photographer ghosting in behind her, the same one who’d shown up about halfway through the hair and makeup shenanigans, though Clint had been very careful to stay out of her way. 

It was clear that Clint was meant to be a key player in these photos though, because she positioned herself at a clear angle to both of them as Nat held up the little flower - boutonniere, some distant part of his brain dredged up - for his inspection. Tiny red flowers and some greenery, it was nothing Clint had any experience with, but his eyes lit up at the little gold arrows crossed on the stem. He grinned at her and she grinned back, all the mischief of their childhood glittering in her eyes, and then she reached out to pin the flower to his vest. Then she reached down and carefully cuffed his sleeves to just below the elbow before brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder.

“I guess you’ll do,” she said, resting her hand on his arm.

“Do I look as nice as the other boys?” he asked, preening comically.

“No,” she said, her smile softening around the edges. “You look better than the other boys, because I picked your clothes out instead of Steve.”

That surprised him. Clint had thought he’d match with the other men - Steve’s groomsmen - and it surprised him to find out Nat had chosen him something all his own, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Well thanks,” he said, swallowing back whatever emotion was caught in his throat. “I appreciate you not subjecting me to Steve’s lack of fashion sense.”

Not that Clint was any better, if he were being honest.

Natasha laughed and then pulled him down to hug her, pressing a feather-light kiss to his cheek that hopefully wasn’t a smear of lipstick.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he replied. “It’s not too late to run off with me and elope.”

“Tempting,” she said, tugging her skirt into place so that they could walk out together, “but I think I’ll take my chances with Steve. He takes instruction better than you do.”

Clint did not want to know. Clint absolutely, ten thousand percent did not want to know, and the sly smirk Natasha sent him assured him further that he really, really, did not want to know. 

“Duly noted,” he said, and they swept out of the apartment in a cascade of silk, chiffon, and flowers. 

Natasha had somehow managed to arrange car service from her apartment to the venue, and despite the city traffic, they made it with time to spare. The whole place was called The Green Building - for good reason, because it was an ugly green monstrosity on the outside - but inside it was all painted brick and high ceilings, and whoever Nat had found to coordinate the wedding had done an amazing job of decorating. It was very much old fashioned charm meets New York City ballet, everything soft linens and rustic flowers, with planter boxes for centerpieces and Clint was almost certain he spotted a mimosa bar as they were whisked through the building and into a private dressing room.

Of all the outdated customs Clint had expected Nat to follow, not seeing the bride before the wedding was one he’d never have figured. He actually wasn’t even sure if it was for her or for Steve, who certainly held on to a fair few old-world sentiments. Now that they were here, there was nothing to do but wait. To Clint’s immense relief, the wedding coordinator appeared not long after they got settled in the dressing room with an armful of mimosas she was more than happy to pass around. Clint took his gratefully, smiling up at the dark-haired woman as he tried to remember her name. He knew he’d met her at least twice, but it wasn’t coming to him.

“Thank you Jessica,” Pepper said, lifting her glass to her lips, and oh yeah, that was it. 

Clint downed the mimosa far faster than was probably polite, but again, it wasn’t like Natasha didn’t know him, and no one remarked on it. 

He could hear the distinct sounds of people filing into the building and he wondered that  _ he _ was the one feeling nervous. Nat looked cool as a cucumber, her skirts draped around her legs and her hair pinned elegantly off her neck. She and Pepper were laughing quietly at something, and the bouquets were all arranged in glass vases, just waiting to be carried out.

Clint tried to review what he was supposed to do in his head. Walk down the aisle just ahead of Natasha and not fall on his face. He could probably do that. Make sure her dress was arranged nicely while she stood at the altar, so it looked good in the pictures. Right, he could do that. Hold the ring until-

He patted frantically at his pocket and yes, okay, ring was there, safe and sound. He heaved a sigh.

Hold the ring until it was time to hand it to Nat, which would be signaled by the presider saying ‘may I have the rings’ - couldn’t mess that up. 

Hold Nat’s flowers while they did the rings, easy enough.

Hand the bouquet  _ back _ to Natasha, fluff her skirt, and follow her out of the ceremony and into the reception.

Easiest twenty minutes of his life, probably.

God, he hoped he didn’t fuck this up. 

He jerked at the feel of a hand squeezing his knee and he looked up to meet Natasha’s gaze. 

“Relax,” she said, smiling at him, clearly amused. Well, easy for her to say, she was used to being stared at on stage. 

Okay, in fairness, Clint had been a performer too, and maybe that was the part of his brain he needed to be engaging here. He hadn’t been a theater performer, of course, but he knew how to work under the watchful gaze of an audience. 

“As long as I walk out of this building married to Steve, everything is going to be fine,” Nat reassured him, and patted him again.

“So if someone objects, I should punch them in the face, gottit.”

Wanda barked out a laugh, and just like that, Clint relaxed into Nat’s touch, felt the strangling grip of anxiety around his chest ease. 

Which was good because Jessica chose that moment to let them know it was time to get this show on the road. She led them out of the tiny dressing room to the ceremony space, where the large wooden doors were closed but Clint could just barely make out the rustling of bodies and strains of music. Nat had called in some kind of orchestral favors and managed to get a string quartet to play the ceremony using the promise of free booze afterwards. 

Jessica lined them up, Wanda first, then Pepper, then Clint last, just before Natasha.

“I’ll nod at you when it’s time to walk,” she said, briskly, and paused to straighten Clint’s vest, sort his collar, and de-wrinkle his cuffs. “Just try to maintain the pace of the person in front of you so that you’re spaced out evenly. There are little squares of tape on the floor so you know where to stand. Make sure you turn and face the door when the bride walks in, and remember to smile.”

She could not have looked any more un-wedding-planner like if she’d tried, in an outfit of blacks and greys with a heavy scarf, but she was efficient and organized, Clint had to give her that. 

“And ladies, hold your bouquets at  _ waist _ level, not in front of your tits. It makes for better photos that way.”

Clint snorted a laugh. 

Just for something to do, he pulled his phone out and held it up, snapping a selfie. It was mostly his face, a little bit of the vest and the bit of flower pinned to his vest and, on a whim, he sent it off to Bucky.

_ I clean up good, right? _


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Clint was tucking his phone back into his pocket, the doors swung open and the music swelled to something light and joyful that he absolutely didn’t recognize. Jessica stood off to the side, out of sight of the guests and nodded at Wanda, who glided forward, easily keeping pace with the music. Clint was suddenly glad he was last, because it meant he wasn’t setting the tone. When Wanda was about a third of the way down the aisle, Jessica nodded again and Pepper sailed forward. Clint was too busy watching Jessica for his signal to pay much attention to Pepper but when she nodded, he swung his gaze forward and focused on matching her exact speed, taking slow, measured steps. He even managed to plaster a smile on his face at the last second, though he wished Jessica had told him what to do with his  _ hands _ which he left hanging limply at his sides. 

The purpose of a bouquet, he decided, was to give bridesmaids something to do with their damn hands.

What had the groomsmen done?

Oh yeah, groomsmen didn’t walk down the aisle, they waited at the end.

The thought made Clint look up and focus on them.

Steve was standing front and center, looking pleased and hopeful and anxious all at once, glancing over Clint’s shoulder where Natasha was carefully out of sight, practically bouncing on his toes in impatience and excitement. He had on a grey suit and navy bow tie, and yeah, okay, Nat had a point about Clint’s clothing. The groomsmen were lined up behind him, three of them just like Nat, in matching grey pants and bow ties, with suspenders - fuck were those  _ leather _ suspenders? - elaborate boutonnieres pinned to their chests and-

The best man looked alarmingly familiar. 

Clint knew that face.

Clint knew that face  _ intimately _ , he knew what that face looked like mid-orgasm, he knew what that face looked like when Clint was sucking his cock, Clint knew that face far better than he should have, considering they were Grindr fuckbuddies. 

_ Bucky fucking Barnes _ was standing next to Steve  _ fucking _ Rogers, dressed in suspenders and a bow tie, looking at Clint like he was the ghost of Christmas past.

He looked  _ good _ though. Clint didn’t know what his own face looked like - some mixture of shock and arousal, probably, his smile like the rictus of a corpse - but Bucky looked fucking amazing. Leave it to Bucky Barnes to make hipster suspenders and a  _ goddamn bow tie _ look like high fashion. Fuck, he’d cut his  _ hair _ . It was some kind of coiffed, soft-to-the-touch nonsense that was draping artfully over his forehead and enhanced the line of his jaw and  _ jesus christ. _ He was also wearing his prosthetic again, both arms of the crisp white shirt filled out, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around his left wrist. The shirt fit his broad shoulders like it’d been tailored to rest there, and the pants-

Fuck, his  _ thighs. _

Clint had a hyperfixation with Bucky’s thighs, and he wasn’t too proud to admit it. He wondered what Bucky’s ass looked like in the tailored grey wool. It was probably magnificent.

Even the goddamn suspenders looked good, framing his chest just where Clint knew his nipples would be, and they were  _ leather _ and already he had  _ ideas _ for what to do with those, maybe in a secluded closet off of the main reception area and-

Clint felt his mouth drop open, felt Bucky’s naming rolling up on the back of his tongue, and then Bucky-

Bucky was giving him a pained, terrified look. He obviously hadn’t expected to see Clint any more than Clint had expected to see  _ him _ , gussied up at a wedding that, in retrospect, it was obvious they were both attending. The bachelorette and bachelor parties had been the same night. James missed the rehearsal dinner and a couple of hours later Bucky called because he’d had a panic attack. Bucky was so  _ obviously _ a nickname that Clint wasn’t sure how he hadn’t thought to ask. He’d never asked what James’ last name was, but even if he had, it wasn’t like Barnes was all that unusual. Steve had a best friend who was a combat vet with PTSD, Bucky was a combat vet with PTSD. 

It was so obvious it was laughable, except Clint was too stunned to feel anything like humor. 

How he made it up the aisle, Clint would never know. He barely heard the ceremony, going through the motions of fluffing Nat’s skirt and handing off rings and collecting bouquets like a marionette. He didn’t even remember seeing her come down the aisle, and he hoped there would be good photos later so he could get a look at them, because he was disappointed he’d missed it. He couldn’t remember the vows, or the kiss, or whatever reaction the audience had.

He came back to himself sometime around the point where he was walking back down the aisle, elbow to elbow with Barnes, and looking at the back of Natasha’s dress and wondering what, in the actual fuck, had just happened. 

There was also the growing, sick realization that his casual hook-up with Barnes, with  _ Bucky, _ was a lot less casual than he’d let himself believe. Because seeing Bucky at the wedding had given him all sorts of feelings he has neither the time nor the inclination to sort out. There was a whole wedding reception to get through - a speech and dancing, and  _ fuck _ was he supposed to  _ dance _ with Bucky, he couldn’t even remember. 

Once they were through the now-fully-open wooden doors, Clint made a quick and immediate beeline for the bar, uncaring of the fact that there were probably supposed to be photos and that he was probably supposed to be in them. 

It was a mimosas and bloody mary bar, because Steve and Natasha had gone with Sunday Brunch as a reception theme and that meant the bar had vodka, and Clint desperately, desperately needed a vodka. 

The bartender smiled at him like there was nothing wrong, like Clint’s whole world wasn’t twisting into some kind of Alice in Wonderland horror show. 

“Vodka, neat,” he rasped, and the bartender blinked at him in surprise. “Please,” Clint said, and the guy gave him a dubious look but poured two fingers of vodka into a tall bar glass, which almost made Clint laugh. 

Clint downed the liquor in a couple of swallows, retreating to a secluded corner of the room behind a plant to try and get his head on straight. He just needed two minutes and the vodka to work its way into his system and he’d be fine. Really. Two minutes.

He spent the allotted time leaning against the wall with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, letting his brain make the mental recalibration that meant his Grindr hookup of the last few months was  _ also _ his best friend’s husband’s best friend. Which meant they were going to have to interact on some level, for some indefinite period of time, and Clint needed to get his shit together right the fuck now. 

Like sure, the hook-up thing was  _ probably _ over. Presumably. It would probably be awkward to keep casually hooking up when they’d likely have to meet up for dinner at least occasionally. But they were kind of friends. They were the kind of friends that meant Bucky called him when he was freaking out and- 

Oh.

Oh that’s what had happened last night. Bucky’d had some kind of panic attack and, unable to call Steve, he’d called Clint.

Something in Clint’s chest constricted, choking him up all the way to the back of his throat and making him swallow heavily.

Oh god, he was so very fucked. 

*

Clint took a deep breath, slapped a smile on his face, and went back to the group with his shit together. That’s what he was good at, after all. He’d had a lifetime of trauma and if there was anything he was good at, it was pretending to have his shit together when nothing could be further from the truth. But, for now, he had his shit together as much as was possible, and he could fake the rest. 

There were a million photographs. The bride and groom, the bridal party as a whole, the groomsmen and groom, the bridespeople and bride. Nick and Natasha. Nick and Natasha and Steve. Depressingly, there were no parental figures for Steve, but Clint knew what that was like and tried not to give him any sort of pitying glances. Pictures of Clint and Natasha, pictures of Bucky and Steve. Pictures of the four of them, wherein Clint was trying to plaster an easygoing smile on his face and Natasha was shooting him concerned glances out of the corner of her eye.

Luckily, she was whisked away by Jessica before she could corner him for details, and Clint made another beeline for the bar, where the bartender already had vodka lined up for him. It was way too early in the day to be drinking straight vodka, but that hadn’t stopped Clint before today, and it wasn’t going to stop him now.

He knew - Clint wasn’t stupid, okay - he knew he was freaking out. 

But he was also handling it. 

He just kept handling it.

He handled it through brunch, where he griped that there wasn’t real cake-

“It’s a  _ wedding,  _ Nat, what do you  _ mean _ there’s not a cake?”

“There are  _ pancakes _ Clint, cake is right in the name.”

“Pancakes aren’t  _ cake. _ ”

-and he even handled the fact that the groom’s ‘cake’ was goddamn donuts - apple crullers, to be exact, though he didn’t handle it with any thing like grace. 

Mostly, he whined.

He handled it through speeches, wherein Nick commented on how proud of Natasha he was, how she’d grown from a tiny girl with a fierce right hook to a beautiful woman who  _ still _ had a fierce right hook, and  _ you better watch out Rogers. _ Wherein Bucky had stood in front of the assembled guests and told stories of a tiny Steve who’d fought bullies with trash can lids and a later, larger Steve who’d pulled him out of a P.O.W. camp - though he’d prettied the story up a fair bit, Clint was sure - and said things like  _ to the end of the line, _ that had made Steve sniffle, and then it was Clint’s turn. 

Clint pulled the folded up paper out of his pocket, and he read it out loud and hoped for the best. He wasn’t the public speaker Bucky was, with an easy charm, and he didn’t have the commanding presence that Nick Fury did, making sure all eyes were on him, but he spoke sincerely and passionately about his friendship with Natasha, and the deep and abiding bond they’d always had. He talked about family, and how it was always the family you made, the family you chose, that meant more in the end. He talked about loyalty and steadfastness. He may have threatened Steve Rogers with bodily harm, if you read between the lines a little bit. 

When he sat down Natasha was crying, and when she punched him in the thigh he knew he’d done good. 

In fact, Clint handled it so well, that he was halfway through the reception - through the food and the speeches and the official dances and into the casual mingling - before it dawned on him that Bucky was actively avoiding him. 

Every time their circles overlapped, in conversation or in small groups, Bucky managed to eel his way out of the situation. Either he made some kind of excuse - oh there’s so-and-so I have to go say hi - or he just silently disappeared, gone between one blink and the next. 

Clint hadn’t expected that to hurt, but it did. 

And then the thing he’d feared most happened.

Sharon cornered him by the bar. 

With her were Tony and his boyfriend Bruce, who had turned up with a plate of mini waffles and fruit and were already mid-argument when they converged. Tony was at most benignly interested; Bruce seemed completely oblivious to the byplay between Sharon and Clint. 

Clint looked around for an escape and found none forthcoming. Wanda and Pepper were across the room, laughing at something Sam was saying. Natasha was on the dance floor with Steve, spinning gracefully under his hand while he stood, straight and stiff and vaguely awkward but still pleased, holding his arm out for her. Bucky was nowhere in sight - not that Clint expected rescue from that corner - and Nick was leaning on the bar, talking to Clint and Natasha’s old coach, Phil Coulson. He sighed, succumbing to the inevitable. 

“So,” Sharon said, smiling at Clint like she wasn’t about to make his day just that little bit worse, “where’s your boyfriend? I thought we’d see him here?”

Clint shrugged, unable to formulate a response. The man she’d seen him with at the bar  _ was _ here, but it wasn’t like he was going to pretend to be Clint’s boyfriend, not under these circumstances. He  _ wasn’t _ Clint’s boyfriend, no matter how much Clint’s stupid, idiot heart might suddenly be wishing for that to be the case, and he kept his mouth firmly shut. 

“That’s too bad,” she continued, smirk turning sharp. “But, you know what they say. Plenty more fish in the sea and all that, right guys?”

Tony and Bruce blinked at her, obviously caught unaware and unsure of what they were being asked to agree to. Tony opened his mouth to answer, and Clint suddenly couldn’t bear to hear what any of them had to say. 

He’d  _ liked _ what he had with Bucky - with  _ Barnes _ \- dammit. It had been easy, and fun, and free of these kinds of obligations, and now fate had conspired to ruin it and he was suddenly, inexplicably, pissed off about it and at Sharon in particular, who was here to rub salt in the wound. 

Clint took a deep breath, opened his mouth to fire off whatever it was that his mouth saw fit to convey, when a familiar hand landed at the base of his spine and a deep red flower appeared under his nose, sweet-smelling and soft. 

“Hey sweetheart,” Bucky said, holding the flower out for Clint to take. “Sorry I got held up with Steve.”

Sharon, Tony, and Bruce all blinked at the two of them in utter confusion. 

Clint took the flower from Bucky’s hand - his left hand, he absently noted - and leaned into the warm palm against his spine. Fuck it, if Bucky was going to rescue him again, Clint was going to let him. What the hell they were going to tell Steve and Natasha he had no idea, but that was a problem for future Clint.

“Wanna dance?” Bucky asked, when no one offered anything to fill the silence, but even Clint could see that Tony was gearing up to let loose.

“Yes,” Clint breathed, stumbling to follow him to the dance floor as Bucky propelled them both away from the still-gaping group. 

Bucky pulled him into a shuffling waltz, one that even Clint could manage after years with Nat, though he did step on Bucky’s toes at least twice before they got sorted. Bucky put his left hand - the prosthetic again - against Clint’s lower back, and his right hand laced with Clint’s left, so he was leading. Clint was fine with that, because the day he had to lead a dance would be the day they both ended up on the ground.

“So,” Bucky said, after a few shuffling steps. “You do clean up good.”

Clint snorted a laugh. At least Bucky had looked at the photo. “Yeah in retrospect this all seems kind of stupid. Thanks for the save, by the way. Even a pity save is better than being left with those vultures.” 

Bucky looked pained, and Clint immediately wished he hadn’t said anything. 

“It’s not- I don’t pity you,” Bucky said, sounding like every word was being dragged out of his throat unwillingly. 

Clint glanced over at the flower in his hand where it was pressed against Bucky’s shoulder in his fingers. He couldn’t seem to really meet Bucky’s eyes, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest of what he seemed to be gearing up to say. “Did you steal this from a centerpiece?” he asked, instead.

Bucky sighed. He opened his mouth to speak but then stiffened up, glaring over Clint’s shoulder. Clint turned to look, and found Natasha and Steve heading toward them, looking determined. He groaned. Taking an assessing look around, he dropped his arm from Clint’s waist and twisted their joined hands so it was less dancing and more hand-holding, then tugged Clint in the opposite direction from the newlyweds. “C’mon,” he said, as Clint stumbled behind him, “I think we should talk, and I don’t want Stevie buttin’ in.”

“Stevie?” Clint asked, delighted. “Is that what you call him? Can I call him that?”

“Only if I can call Natasha  _ Pauchok, _ ” Bucky said, blithely.

“Sure, knock yourself out,” Clint agreed as Bucky pulled them into coat check and then  _ through a secret door _ into another room. “Holy shit, I didn’t know this was here.” It was a small lounge-type area with a couple of wingback chairs, a velour sofa, and a handful of barstools. Clint hadn’t known it even existed, not that he’d seen much of the venue outside the wedding.

Bucky shrugged, a little awkward. “I gotta know all the entrances and exits. Gave myself a tour when Steve and Natasha were talking about bookin’ the place.”

Clint opened his mouth to ask if Bucky had broken in to do it, then thought better of it and shut his jaw with an audible clack.

“So,” he said, instead. “You wanted to talk? And also hide from Steve and Nat which, while I fully support that, means that they’re gonna think we’re fucking in the coat closet.”

“I’m okay with that,” Bucky said, grinning a little. 

“Which part? Fuckin’ in the coat closet or them thinking that’s what we’re doing?”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Both. Either. But we should talk first.”

Ugh, Clint had hoped to avoid the talking portion of the day. Talking sucked. 

Bucky apparently agreed because even though it was his suggestion, he didn’t look too thrilled with the idea of opening up. In fact, he looked downright sour about it. 

“So you seem like you’re feelin’ better,” Clint observed, finally, for lack of anything better to say. “Since last night, I mean.”

Blinking up at him, Bucky seemed first surprised and confused, and then he grimaced, his face flushing a little bit, and dammit, Clint hadn’t meant to embarrass him. “Yeah,” he said finally, blowing out a long breath. “Yeah, I feel better. Thanks, you know, for listening.”

“Anytime,” Clint said, and he tried to make it sound as sincere as it felt. Bucky was watching him closely, like he was judging how much Clint meant it by the expression on his face, and whatever he found there made him relax.

“So the thing is,” Bucky said slowly, pausing to consider his words, and Clint braced himself for whatever was coming next. Clint had been let down gently before, and this was starting to sound a lot like that.

“It’s fine-” he started, but Bucky shot him a quelling look.

“The thing is,” he said again, “it wasn’t a pity dance. Or a pity save. I don’t pity you, Clint. I like you.”

Clint stared at him, his jaw unattractively slack. 

It seemed to galvanize Bucky though, because he continued a little more confidently than he had before. “I like you a lot, actually, and I trust you. When I-” he cleared his throat and shook his head a little bit, like he was disappointed in himself. “When I first came back I couldn’t even leave my apartment, and when I could finally leave my apartment I couldn’t deal with people anymore. I used to be good with people.” He said it wistfully, like it was a part of himself he’d never get back, but Clint had heard the speech he’d given earlier, and he thought maybe there was more of that part of him left than Bucky thought. “I couldn’t date- hell, I couldn’t even pick people up at the bar because by the time I got them back to my place I was too paranoid to let them in, and forget about going back to their place. Not to mention-” he gestured vaguely at his left side. 

Clint made an abortive motion, coughed up a small sound like he wanted to respond, but now Bucky had got started, he seemed determined to get through whatever it was he felt like he needed to say. 

“So then I thought, okay Grindr. Right? I can swipe and people come to me, no bars, no hypervigilance, I could handle Grindr. I was lonely.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “That didn’t really work out so hot either, cos then it was the weirdos and the freaks with a thing for amputees, or it was the opposite problem, people who couldn’t deal with it when I took my shirt off.”

Thinking back, Clint remembered how aggressive Bucky had been about getting shirtless and making sure Clint got a good look, back in the beginning, before they’d really known each other. How he’d made sure his arm and his scars were visible, and how he’d watched Clint warily before Clint had touched him those first few times. 

“And I couldn’t relax, anyway,” Bucky added, “so let’s just say it was a disappointing experience all around, until you showed up.”

Eyebrows at his hairline, Clint choked out, “Me?”

There wasn’t anything special about him, Clint didn’t think. He was just a guy, like any other guy. Sure, he tried to be a nice guy and he tried to be a good friend, but he was pretty mediocre at both, all things considered, and he was only kind of making it through adulthood at all. 

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled at him, something lopsided about it, like he wasn’t quite sure whether he should smile or not. “You. You showed up looking like that-” Bucky gestured, like there was something special about the way Clint looked, “-and then you just treated me like a regular person. Didn’t give a shit about my arm. Didn’t give a shit about how neurotic I could be or that I threw you out as soon as I could catch my breath. Didn’t care that I was grumpy as fuck. You just rolled with it, a smile on your face like you were genuinely fuckin’  _ delighted _ to show up. I deleted Grindr just about as soon as I got your number, and it’s only been you since.”

Clint… tried to process all of that. He tried to… reframe the last three months in light of a Bucky who wasn’t uninterested in companionship but who was insecure about his arm and who was looking for acceptance instead of being treated with kid gloves and-

And then he thought about how his relationship with Bucky had grown over the last several weeks, about the ease they had together in the bedroom, about how Bucky’s grumpiness was more of an in-joke than genuine, about how much Clint laughed when they were together. He thought about that last night in Bucky’s apartment, when Bucky had awkwardly invited him over and Clint had slept the whole night and how honestly  _ happy _ Bucky had seemed the next morning. 

He thought about the phone call in the restaurant, about Bucky reaching out to him when he was vulnerable and something in Clint’s chest just rolled over to show its belly, like this was it, this was some kind of  _ moment _ and he just-

“If we’re boyfriends can I have more than five minutes of afterglow?” he blurted, the words completely bypassing what little brain-to-mouth filter he possessed. 

Bucky stared for a handful of heartbeats, and then he started laugh, deep, rough chuckles as he covered his face with his hand. 

“What?” Clint said, smirking as he pried Bucky’s hand off of his face. The left one was resting gently in his lap, and Clint tentatively wrapped his fingers around it, the same as Bucky’s right wrist. The laughter dried up as Bucky looked from Clint’s hand to his face. “It’s a legitimate question,” Clint assured him, feeling the smirk on his face soften into something else. “I need to know what the benefits are here. Extended afterglow, getting my underwear back, borrowing the shower, what?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Sure, alla that. Plus the added bonus of dealing with my panic attacks, hypervigilance, and compulsive behavior.”

Clint shrugged. “I have a dog, I eat too much pizza, and I’m late to everything. Nobody’s perfect. Besides, I haven’t opened Grindr in months, I’m not sure I remember how it works, I don’t wanna have to figure it out again.” He leaned in, watching Bucky carefully the whole time, until he was pressing their mouths together in the gentlest, most chaste kiss they’d ever shared. 

“I’m really not relationship material,” Clint said softly, their mouths just a hairsbreadth apart. “Natasha shoulda warned you.”

Bucky snorted. “Natasha’s done nothing but talk about how great her friend  _ Yastreb _ is, I don’t think she knows a good thing when she sees it. Who names their kid Hawk?”

Clint started laughing. Clint laughed so hard he had to lean on Bucky for support, his head on Bucky’s shoulder and the flowers from Bucky’s boutonniere practically up Clint’s nose.

“What’s so funny?” Bucky finally asked, stroking a hand along Clint’s spine. 

“ _ Yastreb _ is me,” he informed Bucky, wiping tears out of his eyes. “And you’re James. And we’re so fucking stupid, it’s honestly embarrassing.”

“Why does she call you Hawk?” Bucky asked, bewildered.

“It’s from when I was in the circus.”

There was a moment of profound silence and then Bucky shook his head. “You know what, I feel like this is a story that should be told naked, in bed, after an extremely thorough round of sex, not in a coat closet at our best friends’ wedding.”

“So, later tonight then?” Clint tried, angling his best smirk up at Bucky. 

“Mmm,” Bucky hummed, tugging Clint up out of his seat and pulling him flush against his body. “Convince me.”

And this, at least, was familiar enough, Clint backing Bucky up against a wall and plundering his mouth, reaching down to grab hold of his ass and pull them roughly together, wrinkling both their trousers and smashing the flowers on their shirts. By the time he let go they were both panting for air, Bucky’s hair was thoroughly mussed, and Clint’s vest had lost a button somewhere along the way. 

Clint reached up and brushed the strands of Bucky’s hair out of his eyes, fruitlessly trying to put it back in some semblance of order. “Your hair looks good by the way,” he said, running his fingers through the soft strands. “This what set you off?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted, looking around the floor for the lost button. “Turns out I don’t much care for sharp objects near my face.”

He didn’t find the button, but he picked Clint’s abandoned flower up and tucked it into the pocket of his vest, behind the blue silk pocket square Wanda had folded up for him. 

“Thanks,” Clint said, ducking in to kiss him again. 

When they nonchalantly meandered out of the coat closet hand-in-hand to find Steve and Natasha waiting for them, Clint was certain they were about to meet their imminent demise. Between Bucky’s disastrous hair and Clint’s wrinkled trousers and missing button, it probably seemed pretty obvious what they’d been doing.

Frankly, Clint was happy to let them think that. 

Steve had on his Disappointed Dad face though, and Natasha was giving Clint the look she reserved for special occasions, like the time he’d proposed to Bobbi Morse at a karaoke bar. 

“So,” Steve said, and Bucky rolled his eyes. He gave Clint a  _ get a load of this guy _ look that didn’t do much to soothe Clint’s nerves. Clint was more than aware that he wasn’t good enough to be Bucky Barnes’ boyfriend, thank you very much. “How long has this been goin’ on?”

“I dunno Stevie,” Bucky drawled, “a few months, I guess?”

Natasha turned furious eyes on Clint, and Clint not-so-subtly stepped on Bucky’s foot. 

She raised an eyebrow in clear demand. Clint shuffled his feet and looked anywhere but her face. “And you didn’t think to mention, perhaps, that you were seeing one another?” Natasha said, edged like knives and underneath that a hint of hurt that Clint couldn’t ignore.

“Aw, Nat, no,” he said, taking a half step forward. “It’s not like that. We didn’t know!”

She glared at him in disbelief. 

“No really, we didn’t know. You call him James and you call me  _ Yas _ , and we never met. We didn’t  _ know _ .”

“But you obviously  _ know _ each other,” Steve prompted, looking pointedly at their joined hands.

“Yeah, well, we’ve been fuckin’ for months,” Bucky said, smirking, “but the boyfriends thing is kinda new.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “How new?”

Clint made a show of glancing at a watch he didn’t have and then shrugging at Bucky. “Eh, maybe half an hour?”

Steve and Natasha stared at them with twin looks of  _ are you fucking kidding me _ , before Natasha rolled her eyes. She took a few steps forward before reaching out to hug Clint gently, then smack him on the back of the head. 

“Ow!”

“You are an idiot,” she informed him. “But you’re my idiot, and I love you.” She shot Bucky a look that conveyed the many ways she could kill a man using only her thighs. 

Steve reached out and clapped Bucky’s shoulder roughly. “I’m happy for you pal, I really am. But Tasha’s right, you’re both idiots. Coulda had this months ago, I offered to introduce you.”

Bucky turned to look at Clint, warm and considering, before turning back to Steve. “Nah, Stevie, kinda think we had to find this all on our own.”

**Author's Note:**

> I owe a whole barrel of gratitude to a list as long as my arm here. I'm going to try and hit all the highlights, but if I leave someone out, know that it was entirely by accident and my thankfulness is unending and depthless and I appreciate you all more than you know. 
> 
> Thanks to Heuradys for the prompt in the first place, for being so accommodating when I changed my mind so many times, and for being so supportive as I worked through this fic. And - arguably most importantly - thank you for bidding on me and my writing. It's been a pleasure and an honor to write something for you!
> 
> Thanks to Nny who helped first corral my ideas into something sensible - lord knows it was a jumbled-up mess to start with. And a second thanks for the beta read she gave this fic in its finalized form, correcting grammar, at least two sentences that were straight up WTF EVEN IS THIS PUNCTUATION and for helping me give certain characters more emotional depth and characterization. And for the lovely cheerleading that went along with it, for helping me talk through the tricky bits, and for generally being an entirely gracious and lovely human being.
> 
> Thanks to Steph, without whose cheerleading this fic would absolutely not exist. Thank you for fixing my tenses, screaming in the comments section, helping me hammer out ideas (that selfie tho!!!) and generally reassuring me this fic isn't trash. I literally could not have done this without you bby.
> 
> Thanks to the BDBD who helped me sprint, cheered my snippets, helped me work out some plot things, and listened to me plan a whole-ass Romanogers wedding with minimal complaint. This corner of fandom is so amazing and supportive and I appreciate you guys every day.
> 
> Special thanks to Sev who helped me with Russian nicknames! Nat is 'little spider' and Clint is 'Hawk', for those wondering about the translations.
> 
> I love everyone in this bar, thank you so much for reading my words!
> 
> Finally, this fic meets my Clint Barton Bingo square 'Didn't know they were dating'!


End file.
